Wrong Side of History

Many years ago, I found myself on a press trip to Trieste, that outstandingly beautiful Adriatic city with its late Habsburg feel. As our group checked into the hotel, I was last to present my passport to the concierge, whose face immediately broadened into a smile. I was to be given a special double room with a wide view of the bay, he told me warmly. The reason – I had an Irish passport. ‘We love James Joyce here’, he said, and something to the effect that all Irish people are special to them.

It’s true that the city loves Joyce, and there are signs everywhere to remind visitors of the incomprehensible novelist’s time here. I imagine that the hotel receptionist, being Italian, couldn’t tell from my accent that I am not exactly an Irishman, certainly not in the same way that Joyce was – although perhaps he was also unaware that Joyce, funnily enough, refused to have an Irish passport.

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